‘I’m sure we don’t,’ said Smiley.
‘Look here. Do you reckon if I went and saw her – bearded her in his house – took a really tough line – threatened legal action and so forth – it might tip the scales? I mean I’m bigger than he is, God knows. I’m not without clout, whichever way you read me!’
They stood on the pavement under the stars, waiting for Smiley’s cab.
‘Well have a good holiday anyway. You’ve deserved it,’ Lacon said. ‘Going somewhere warm?’
‘Well, I thought I might just take off and wander.’
‘Lucky you. My God, I envy you your freedom! Well, you’ve been jolly useful, anyway. I shall follow your advice to the letter.’
‘But, Oliver, I didn’t give you any advice,’ Smiley protested, slightly alarmed.
Lacon ignored him. ‘And that other thing is all squared away, I hear,’ he said serenely. ‘No loose ends, no messiness. Good of you, that, George. Loyal. I’m going to see if we can get you a bit of recognition for it. What have you got already, I forget? Some chap the other day in the Athenaeum was saying you deserve a K.’
The cab came, and to Smiley’s embarrassment Lacon insisted on shaking hands. ‘George. Bless you. You’ve been a brick. We’re birds of a feather, George. Both patriots, givers, not takers. Trained to our services. Our country. We must pay the price. If Ann had been your agent instead of your wife, you’d probably have run her pretty well.’
The next afternoon, following a telephone call from Toby to say that ‘the deal was just about ready for completion’, George Smiley quietly left for Switzerland, using the workname Barraclough. From Zurich airport he took the Swissair bus to Berne and made straight for the Bellevue Palace Hotel, an enormous, sumptuous place of mellowed Edwardian quiet, which on clear days looks across the foothills to the glistening Alps, but that evening was shrouded in a cloying winter fog. He had considered smaller places; he had considered using one of Toby’s safe flats. But Toby had persuaded him that the Bellevue was best. It had several exits, it was central, and it was the first place in Berne where anyone would think to find him, and therefore the last where Karla, if he was looking out for him, would expect him to be. Entering the enormous hall, Smiley had the feeling of stepping onto an empty liner far out at sea.
TWENTY-ONE
His room was a tiny Swiss Versailles. The bombe writing-desk had brass inlay and a marble top, a Bartlett print of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold hung above the pristine twin beds. The fog outside the window made a grey wall. He unpacked and went downstairs again to the bar where an elderly pianist was playing a medley of hits from the Fifties, things that had been Ann’s favourites, and, he supposed, his. He ate some cheese and drank a glass of Fendant, thinking : Now. Now is the beginning. From now on there is no shrinking back, no space for hesitation. At ten he made his way to the old city, which he loved. The streets were cobbled; the freezing air smelt of roast chestnuts and cigars. The ancient fountains advanced on him through the fog, the medieval houses were the backdrop to a play he had no part in. He entered the arcades, passing art galleries and antique shops, and doorways tall enough to ride a horse through. At the Nydegg Bridge he came to a halt, and stared into the river. So many nights, he thought. So many streets still here. He thought of Hesse : strange to wander in the fog… no tree knows another. The frozen mist curled low over the racing water; the weir burned creamy yellow.
An orange Volvo estate car drew up behind him, Berne registration, and briefly doused its lights. As Smiley started towards it, the passenger door was pushed open from inside, and by the interior light he saw Toby Esterhase in the driving seat and, in the back, a stern-looking woman in the uniform of a Bernese housewife, dandling a child on her knee. He’s using them for cover, Smiley thought; for what the watchers called the silhouette. They drove off and the woman began talking to the child. Her Swiss German had a steady note of indignation : ‘See there the crane, Eduard… Now we are passing the bear-pit, Eduard… Look, Eduard, a tram…’ Watchers are always dissatisfied, he remembered; it’s the fate of every voyeur. She was moving her hands about, directing the child’s eye to anything. A family evening, Officer, said the scenario. We are going visiting in our fine orange Volvo, Officer. We are going home. And the men, naturally, Officer, seated in the front.